Peacock's Cry
by marlinowl
Summary: Even in death, Shen must return to his roots and face those from his past to discover who he really is, and what he must do. Post KFP2.
1. A Prophecy Fulfilled

The black gunpowder creates a hard contrast against Shen's white feathers, a chiaroscuro plumage; he finally realises that _this is what she meant_, and he closes his eyes in capitulation.

.

The first thing he is aware of is that he can't hear anything. He runs the possibilities through his mind: he has become deaf, everyone else has become mute, or he's finally all alone. It's clear as to which one of his options he prefers, but knowing his luck so far, it would probably be all three.

There's really no incentive for him to find out if he can move or not – he entertains the thought of just laying there for as long as it takes for something to happen – but he tries shifting his right wing slightly. Shen is pleasantly surprised when he feels it – apparently, he still has the sense of touch – sliding across the floor an inch; the gravel beneath it brushes lightly against his feathers. He experiments with his other wing to similar results. Shen still doesn't open his eyes (he isn't sure if he has eyes anymore, anyway), afraid of what he will see. Slowly, he becomes aware of more things – he is breathing, for one. His ribs push against the floor rhythmically in tandem with his inspiration; he can feel the warmth of each breath as it passes through his nostrils and he counts ten breaths to be sure of his inexplicable existence. He shifts his wing until it rests over his chest, feeling the pulse of life emanating from his moving chest, an invisible rhythm beneath his skin. Heartbeat.

Carefully, his eyelids part to a vertical plane of dirt. So he can see, too. Shen sits up languidly to rub his eyes and starts to assess his surroundings. He's in the middle of a long, empty street. There are a few shophouses in front of him, sundried provisions all lined up neatly by a missing owner for customers who aren't there. Cheery advertisements for vegetable soup flutter in the deserted eatery behind him, bowls and utensils laid out at each table. Along the stretch of road there are a series of paper lanterns hanging overhead. This place seems rather familiar.

As a child, Shen hardly ventured outside of the ancestral palace. Small and etiolated, his parents had explicitly forbidden him from exploring the city alone; even with companions he was only allowed to travel to a few choice districts within a prescribed perimeter of their home. He used to remember those rare trips with great clarity, the only things he had known besides the interior of the Tower of Sacred Flame. If only he can just place it, he thinks that he came down this street once while out exploring with the Soothsayer, his old nanny.

It appears that he is in Gongmen City, from what he has gathered so far. The wrong part of the city, to be more precise. There's no explaining how he wound up in a province which didn't even touch the river, neither can he remember what happened after the battle on his decimated boat. All he can extract from his memory is the groaning of metal under strain and a tall, protruding shadow enlarging around him…

The midday sun hangs in the sky, a glowing orb sitting on the edge of a large cloud. Something's not right. It's too…quiet. There doesn't seem to be a single soul anywhere nearby, nor can he hear what would suggest the activity of civilians elsewhere in the city. The debris of their daily lives litter the street – unmanned wooden rickshaws lined up in order, a lion dancer's costume stranded by the roadside, fruit stands with watermelon halves sweating in the sun – all missing their people. This is what makes him think that maybe he isn't in Gongmen City after all; he knows too well how the city operates around the clock, the bustling of townsfolk in every corner and street.

He isn't sure if he really is the only one in the abandoned city. For all he knows, the panda could be waiting nearby, planning to spring an ambush –

Shen dismisses the thought. It didn't matter; the panda wouldn't want to fight anyway, being the naïve pacifist he has already proven himself to be. Besides, he has his weapons with him – a wing reaching into his robes to grasp the familiar handles of his throwing knives meets air. More surprised than alarmed, Shen realises that he is unarmed. Strangely, it feels unnatural – not having the cold kiss of his steel blades, partially shielded by fabric, perpetually against his skin. He feels naked in some way, but there is little he can do about it now. Perhaps he could find some way to improvise later, create makeshift weapons if necessary.

He gets to his feet and is given another incredible surprise – there's an odd tingling in his feet as he stands up and when he looks down he discovers that his talons are unarmoured. Startled, he falls over, unprepared for this revelation and the soft tickle of grit between his toes. Seated on the ground, he examines them closely in astonishment. Exposed and normal, his feet no longer sport ugly scars sustained from third-degree burns, the product of his carelessness. The feeling of his feet against something other than metal is a sensation he has forgotten; the experience is positively electric. He attempts to flex a joint, to understand how much control he has over his restored pedial faculties. Shen tries standing again, gingerly, carefully testing his weight, acclimatising to the use of his healed talons.

When he is able to successfully stand upright again, he walks down the street to carry out some reconnaissance. Looking around, there isn't much in this part of the city, the absence of other people aside. While he cannot say for sure that the rest of the city isn't the same, Shen decides that it can't hurt to explore this shell of a city on feet that can feel again, just like he used to years ago.

.

The resplendent sun burns its way through the thick bank of clouds fogging the sky, a mid-afternoon brightness truncated only by the shifting pumice clouds. In every corner he looks there's a stirring wind, like those found in the recent passage of someone else, only much lonelier.

"He…hello?" Shen calls. His uncertain voice travels through streets and culverts, echoing ominously. There's still no sign of anyone else; he has walked through six different avenues with no luck whatsoever. Twice he thinks that he sees something scuttling around the avenue furtively and twice he still finds nothing after giving chase. It seems that he really is the solitary inhabitant of the city. This interests him more than anything – he thinks that he should be more concerned, more worried about his current predicament.

The trees bend in the wind, leaves scatter in front of him. Something rolls in front of him and he stoops to pick it up. It's a top, crafted from wood and colourfully painted. The string needed to start it spinning, however, is missing…

Almost as soon as he thinks it, he notices the string lying on a nearby barrel. It's almost as if the child's toy is asking him to play with it. A memory forms: He is six, and on his birthday the Soothsayer gives him a top just like this one (the colours even look nearly the same). He tries to spin it – from the confines of his room he has seen other children playing in the streets – and accidentally flings it out the window, just missing her by a hair. They share a moment's silence, and then crack into laughter. He remembers practicing for weeks after that, trying to keep the top spinning as long as possible, to show his parents that he could do something right for once.

Shen loops the string around the base of the top and yanks the cord, sending it spinning onto the dirt road. The colours bleed into each other, forming an iridescent cone of light.

From far away, he hears the clink of china against china. Shen looks up in the direction of the noise, listening intently. This time, there's a soft tintinnabulation, hushed peals whispering on the breeze. He shouldn't expect to find anything else and doesn't expect to, but as of now he has all the time in the world to investigate. Placing the string back where he found it, Shen walks away, leaving the top behind, a gyroscopic whirl of chromaticity.

(The top continues to spin long after the echo of his final footstep dies.)

.

Shen picks up the scent of brewing tea, a hearty aroma of boiling leaves percolating through the dry air; it suffuses his nostrils with such intensity that he realises he hasn't smelled something so potent – he can't remember smelling anything at all, now that he thinks about it – ever since he regained consciousness. As he closes in on the source, Shen sees a tea shop situated on a street corner from a distance away. He recognises it as the shop that he visited every now and then with his parents – his mother had liked the tea that the owners brewed so much that she requested that the shop be relocated closer to the palace so that she could bring him there.

He hates drinking tea – brown sludge with a euphemistic connotation – but he realises that he never told them, amongst many other things.

A figure sits at one of the tables, its back facing him. Squinting, Shen can make out a testudinal back, a yin-yang symbol draped across it…

When he gets close enough, he is about to call out when the figure turns around. The tortoise smiles warmly, welcoming him, as if he knows him. "Ah, good. You've arrived; I've been expecting you." He pats the seat of the chair next to him, motioning to Shen to sit down. Confused but thankful to have finally met someone else, he acquiesces.

His host pours him a generous dose of steaming tea and picks up his own cup. Still slightly stupefied, Shen leaves it untouched; he stares into the dark liquid rippling peacefully within its china container, a herbal aquifer. His bewildered reflection glares back at him, sclera and feathers stained russet brown.

"What's the matter?" The tortoise looks at him pleasantly. "Wrong flavour?"

Shen shakes his head. "I don't drink tea. I don't like tea." He is aware of how rude he sounds, how much he sounds like a petulant child.

The tortoise tilts his head inquisitively in response. "Have you tried it before?" Shen nods warily. His acquaintance gestures at the cup in front of him. "Have you tried _my_ tea before?"

"No…" Shen replies hesitantly; didn't they all taste the same to him anyway?

"Well, if you never try, you'll never know, right?" The tortoise chuckles and returns to his beverage.

There isn't anything to lose, anyway. He may as well accommodate his mysterious companion, just this once. Shen lifts the cup to his beak reluctantly and allows a small quantity of the murky fluid to trickle into his mouth. He swallows. Astonishingly, he doesn't recoil in disgust like the first time he tried drinking tea. The rich flavour washes over his tongue and seems to warm him from the inside – it's the most delicious thing he has ever tasted.

"So," the tortoise says, smiling broadly. "How is it?"

"It's delicious…ambrosial, even." He drains the rest of the tea in one gulp and sets the cup down on the table. Immediately, the tortoise reaches for the teapot and grants him a refill. Shen thanks him politely, but doesn't proceed to drink. "Who are you?" he asks; a simple, reasonable question.

His odd companion looks at him with an ocular expression that is incomprehensible and curious at the same time. Finally, he smiles knowingly, once more. "Have some more tea, Shen," he nudges the cup closer to him, "and then, maybe then we'll talk, just a little."

.

_But there are certain things we do not speak of:_

_– once upon a time, there were people who walked these streets. They spoke and laughed and cried with such vitality it even endured the toll of the monsoon rains, a trial of weather. Back then sunsets referred to the elusive instance between the first minute of witching hour and the breaking dusk. Back then he thought that he could hold the entire world in a grain of sand, experience all of eternity in a second. Wishes on falling stars could come true, occasionally, but more often with a polished square of moonlight tucked snugly between two feathered, alabaster palms pressed together in tacit prayer._

_It scares Shen, though – the way he accepts this solitude with a finality matched only in dreams, and in death._

_It makes him wonder where the halcyon days have gone._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** The spinning top is an Inception reference, for those who haven't watched the movie. Also, I think I just ran out of synonyms to describe tea.

This is a new original short series that I'm starting up for the fandom, however it will be updated rather sporadically seeing as I've been rather lazy to write these past few weeks. Long stories aren't really my thing, but I decided to give it a try, with much thanks to user onewithnothing for suggesting it. I don't forsee a really long story - it will probably be 3 chapters long - 4 if I can manage - before I run out of ideas. Reviews are very much appreciated._  
><em>


	2. Quod Sum

_You're in the hands of philosophers__  
><em>_who cut themselves, and bleed,__  
><em>_and know that knives are sharp,__  
><em>_but prove with complex logic_

_there's no such thing as sharpness._

- _The Sharpness of Death,_ Gwen Harwood

.

_Somewhere in the deep glens of rural China an old, spavined foundry languishes pitifully in its final stages of structural decay. Vegetation intrudes into the rusted bones of what used to be a guard post, blithely ignoring the menacing KEEP OUT scrawled across the front gate in crooked, red Mandarin characters. Entering this mammoth shell of a building, continuous layers of mildew and lichen encrust warning signs that plaster the walls like sombre epitaphs. Reading through the rimy slime, one may make out barely legible instructions – helpful notices that advise caution around furnaces in operation and when handling cannon gunpowder – and a screaming scarlet insignia if you squint hard enough. Vats that had once held boiling iron now house the occasional migratory bird, a weary traveller looking for a better life elsewhere. Running water carries away the detritus of heavy industry bit by bit, a cascading river running pure to the sea – a cleaning process all occurring by the natural declivity of the landscape and melting ice capping mountain peaks._

_All around this metalloid skeleton everything else vibrates with life, sighing when the wind lends them its archaic voice to hum their mysteries. With this as orchestration, the structure has become part of the Earth. This is much more than a biological truth: Nature tends to bend things towards adapting to it and not the other way round. Slowly, surely, things are being made right again in time – a silent push towards achieving equilibrium, a rudimentary state of existence codified in the hoary days of ancient nature. The days go by, an uncounted figure entrusted only to those with long lives and concentric rings in their trunks._

_The mist is thick and dense in autumn, clinging to the air with heavy arms and occupying the interior of the dilapidated building. In spring the heavens help out with a fugue of rain, a blessing from the torrential gods. Petrichor, the heady perfume of soil, anoints the factory's corpse like frankincense – an earthy fumigation with no one to bear witness._

_From its gaping mouth – battered, distressed doors that creak mournfully at night – ignited grains of time fall, burning flecks of steel lost on the latitude winds travelling east._

.

The stranger has not said anything since his unbinding promise of conversation and continues to drink the herbal brew, stopping every now and then to savour the fragrance. There doesn't seem to be any indication of him wanting to speak to Shen, who sits and waits quietly, nodding his thanks whenever the tortoise reaches over with the teapot to replenish Shen's empty cup with more tea.

After his fourth cup of tea, Shen begins to get increasingly irked by his unfathomably reserved host, and he makes no effort to conceal it. He turns down the tortoise's offer for a fifth quite unkindly, moving his cup far out of the teapot spout's range wordlessly as the tortoise makes another move to refill it. Unperturbed, the tortoise hooks the teapot onto his wooden staff and pours another serving from above Shen's head without spilling a single drop.

This simple acrobatic trick infuriates him immensely – Shen knows enough to recognise a game when he sees one, and the tortoise is playing an oddly moribund variant. Shen doesn't like the feeling of being toyed with; he was promised answers and for all his uncharacteristic obedience, he isn't obtaining anything remotely close to an explanation for what has happened thus far.

His unblemished talons scratch a harsh semitone against the wooden floor and there's a loud crash as he bangs his filled cup on the table in unadulterated contumacy. The china fractures down the middle, spilling hot tea onto the table and over his hands. Shen hisses in pain and withdraws reflexively, knocking over the tortoise's staff. The falling teapot nearly hits Shen's head and is stopped only by the tortoise stretching out a hand gracefully to catch it before it does. He shakes his head disapprovingly and places the porcelain container back on the table before looking over the brown liquid that has now drained into a puddle, infiltrating the porous wood of the furniture. "Such good tea, too," he murmurs, almost sadly. "What a dreadful waste…"

Nursing his scalded hands, Shen manages to break through the pain and squawks incredulously. "_Tea_? I'm hurt and your only worry is for the _tea_?" His lack of concern is more than irritating, to say the least. For a moment, he seriously contemplates picking up the pot and hurling it across the room – perhaps at the tortoise, if he can get some distance between them – but his inflamed fingers convince him otherwise. A pity, but he entertains the thought.

"Wounds can heal, Shen, but you can't recover lost tea once you spill it. Besides," he sniffs, "your hands look just fine to me."

"What are you talking about? Look here –" Shen pulls up his sleeves to display his injured hands and gawks when they emerge completely unscathed. Absolutely flabbergasted, he scrutinises them carefully for the scald wounds that were surely there less than a minute ago, but cannot find even a trace of them. "But…but…" he sputters incoherently; his words have stolen away with the scalding. When his speech returns, he begins to speak in sentences again. "I don't understand – I felt the pain…I saw the burns! It's not possible!"

The tortoise laughs gaily. "Nothing is impossible," he says. When Shen looks at him in utter disbelief, he shrugs. "Well, if you really want to be sure, I'll take a look. Let me see them now, if you will…" He takes Shen's hands and turns them over, clinically examining the healthy – almost translucent – skin stretched over his palms. When his inspection is complete, he pats them gently and smiles at Shen. "All done; as far as I can see, I can't find anything wrong." The warmth in his face thaws slightly into an expression of serious admonishment. "You must remember this, Shen: If you don't control your anger, it will control you instead, and calamity will be the only result." He gestures towards the fragments of china on the table with his staff before looking pointedly at Shen's feet.

So he knows, too; Shen wonders what else the tortoise knows about him. "You're the one who didn't answer my questions in the first place," Shen retorts defensively, though there's a smidgen of shame tinting his voice. "Besides, it was just an accident…"

At this, the tortoise shakes his head firmly. "_There are no accidents_," he intones heavily, tapping his staff on the floor decisively as if to illustrate a point. Before Shen can request for a clarification of this mysterious statement, the tortoise stands up. "Patience is a lesson that few can truly master, Shen. It's like making good tea – if you heat the leaves too strongly, you will get your drink quickly, but you compromise the flavour. You may as well just drink boiling water and spare the tea leaves the agony." When Shen doesn't speak, he continues. "I did not answer your questions because there was no need for me to. It is the simplest questions that have the hardest answers; who I am isn't important, but it is more important for you to discover who _you_ are."

Shen has no idea what all this means – the tortoise's semantics are even more confusing than before to him – as he holds still in his seat with tremorous hands that are as whole and healed as his feet. "What do you mean by that?" he whispers, unsure which of the tortoise's answers he is referring to.

His acquaintance smiles sagely. "Let's go, then. We're all out of tea." Shen turns around to a cleared table, lips parting to declare their abundance of tea; even the broken cup has disappeared, adding even more questions to the growing pile of conundrums beholding him. The tortoise begins to walk out of the shop and looks over his shoulder. "Come on, we're late." Although he doesn't specify for what, Shen nods and follows him, mute and inexpressive as a stone.

Outside the tea shop, seemingly ambiguous light spills from a seemingly ambiguous sky; it only appears that way because Shen doesn't know what to believe anymore.

.

Shophouses all look alike – every one of them is a near-perfect replica of the next, blurring into each other as they travel through the city. Distinguishing features are few and far between, sometimes manifesting in the form of a 'Closed: Come Back Tomorrow' sign sloppily hung – perhaps by a hopelessly maladroit sales attendant who doesn't work there anymore – next to ajar doors. Oriental decorations are more common on one particular street, garish and obscenely festive scraps of coloured paper that rustle lightly in the wind. Walking past a particularly gaudy one – Shen assumes that it's supposed to take on a lion's menacing likeness – he can't help but think of fireworks deployed to scare away evil spirits, talismans to ward off misfortune, wondering what exactly they were trying to keep away.

"Could I at least know where we are?" Shen asks; all this politeness and even-temperedness isn't who he is. Frankly, he hates having to bite back his innate acerbity, but whatever scraps of rationality he still possesses urges him to comply with the tortoise.

That is, of course, assuming that his rational side is still sound – a most gratuitous assumption.

"I don't know. Where do you think we are?" the tortoise replies, turning his head to look around them. Shen can't tell if he's serious or if he's just being difficult – he wouldn't put it past him to be a combination of both, with all the eccentricities he has displayed thus far.

Shen rubs his neck absently, avoiding the gaze of his companion. "I…I don't know either. It could be Gongmen City, I guess."

"What makes you say that?"

"I suppose that maybe it's because I lived here all my childhood," Shen deadpans, shooting the tortoise an annoyed look; he doesn't seem to notice or pretends not to. To further elaborate his theory, Shen points directly ahead in the direction of the impressive cylinder of a palace that towers over all of the other residences surrounding it. "Right there, that's the Tower of Sacred Flame, see." A pause – yet another anomaly: didn't he destroy it? Still, his surprise is limited by the other occurrences – rapidly healing wounds and evaporating crockery – so he continues. "It's my home." His voice cracks abruptly on the last word – for a brief moment, there's a strange hollowness within him as the noun dances on his lips and seems to echo inside his mouth. He clears his throat unnecessarily to shift blame. "It _was_ my home," he corrects himself softly.

"Well, if you say so." The tortoise shrugs and continues to stroll down the street. "Gongmen City, really?" he ruminates out loud, chuckling amusedly.

"Well, why don't you hazard a wild guess, then?" Shen counters, thoroughly affronted by his apparent scepticism.

This verbal challenge wipes the grin from the tortoise's face and seems to perplex him – a first. He seems to think deeply for a while, then turns around to look at Shen when he appears to have found a satisfactory answer. "I don't think that there's a need to guess – you've already answered it yourself." He stops walking and spreads his arms grandiloquently, casting his eyes to the sky. "This is your home, Shen."

"My home?"

"Yes, your home. This – all of it – is your home."

Shen isn't convinced by this exhibition of histrionic monologuing. "Gongmen City isn't my home," he replies tightly.

The tortoise smiles again, as if he knows something Shen doesn't (this isn't even an uncertainty anymore). "Ah, but who ever said that this is Gongmen City? Not I, not you, not anyone."

Shen's beak opens, readying a reply, but instead he stumbles forward to catch up with the tortoise, who has already started walking again.

.

They stop a few metres from the thick iron gates that barricade the Tower of Sacred Flame; Shen's sense of déjà vu is considerably dampened by the stark absence of armed guards who normally flank the path. The tortoise turns towards Shen and extends a hand.

Shen frowns, but he accepts this gesture of politeness, shaking the scaly hand suspiciously.

The tortoise breaks into yet another smile. "This is where I must leave you; my job is done. It's been nice meeting and speaking with you, Shen. I…" He closes his eyes and nods fondly. "I had a good time."

"Wait, what? You're…you're leaving?"

"Yes." He points towards the gates with his staff. "That is where you must go now, and I am no longer needed to guide you. Go forth and then, maybe, you will finally discover who you are. Good luck, Shen."

"No…" Shen begins to panic slightly – would he find anyone else in this city besides this platitude-spouting tortoise? He doesn't want to be alone again. "Don't go…please!"

But the tortoise has disappeared when he finally turns around, leaving behind the faint smell of tea and peaches, redolent in the still air.

.

The doors are strangely unsecured – strange now being the norm in this unnamed city. This time he doesn't need to slice through the usual wooden lock barring them closed; Shen pushes them open with shaky palms and a shakier constitution.

Across the courtyard, he can make out a large, hulking figure standing at the base of the steps leading up to the palace. As Shen moves closer, several features become clearer – ashen grey skin and robes, a sturdy physique, an impressive, curved horn…

Master Thundering Rhino doesn't smile – not one iota – when Shen finally makes it to the sparring arena. The ungulate's mouth is a dangerous line and his expression is unreadable as he takes a heavy step forward to welcome the peacock.

"Hello, Shen."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** The title is Latin for 'what I am'. Since I had some pockets of time between studying to write, I finally managed to continue this story.


	3. The Second Stage

_And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind  
>How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.<em>

_- The Force That Through The Green Fuse Drives The Flower,_ Dylan Thomas

_._

_From the very beginning, he could only see death as his final temptation._

_In his youthful dreams there's life and vibrancy and rich detail, a colourful sister world that never was; never lived in. Once, it was a hillside of heather, the curtseying flowers nodding and refulgent beneath the golden hue of the afternoon sun, and his white body a chalk mark on this picture of perfection. The day before he left: a persimmon orchard, its trees garbed in their autumnal pastiches of amber, and the stream gurgling its seasonal hymns. As he darted between the thickets, upsetting the leaf litter, he could hear his mother distantly calling his name._

_He doesn't trust the dreams; none of them in the slightest. In every moment he is lucid and he knows that this isn't right, that these visions of splendour and joy don't belong to him. Because one who hates the world that hates him should only dream of languor and decadence and the echoing call of death, yet he never does and he doesn't know why._

_But one thing is for sure, looking past the pillars that hold up his nameless dreamscape – indistinct borders and innocuous signs – and that is for all its asymmetry with reality, he dreams as he lives every last waking day: alone._

_On awakening there's only the amalgamated quietude of past and present and alternate universes, a profound emptiness that stitches together the mottled fabric of existence. Some nights, there's a chill down his spine, a dreading in his feathers, back in a realm where everything makes sense again._

.

_This isn't real. This is impossible._

_This cannot be happening._

Shen trips over the hem of his robes as he stumbles backwards, involuntary biological taxis to the rhinoceros who is standing in the centre of the sparring arena, hands clasped behind his back, feet planted firmly. His head is inclined at an angle that allows him to stare down on the peacock with tapered eyes that are as cold and unfeeling as steel, shrouding sad pity and revulsion.

"You!" Shen snarls in disbelief, getting to his feet. Inching backwards (as a bird, he always had a natural predilection for _flight_), he finds himself frantically studying the features of his former master, as if by finding one small detail out of place it will turn him back into ash instantly. The effort turns up a few minor changes – age-worn lines in his face that were not there before, the absence of his mammoth of a weapon – but otherwise there he is. Master Thundering Rhino is standing before him, solid in form and very much alive.

Lowering his gaze, Master Thundering Rhino arches an eyebrow and a faint, non-humorous smile flickers across his face, disappearing as quickly as it had come. "Yes, Shen. Me."

"You…it can't be! You can't be alive…" The ineffaceable memory comes to him in snippets, lurid details and all: the explosive collision of metal on skin; the sickly stench of cauterised flesh; the charred, semi-cremated cadaver lying at the foot of the steps with the Cloud Hammer indented into the ground a few feet away.

As Shen is speaking, Thundering Rhino unclasps his hands and bows curtly before assuming a fighting position, one hand stretched forward in a display of preparedness. "Ready yourself, Shen; I will come at you shortly. No cannons or weapons this time. We will fight hand-to-hand."

"What?" There is no time to process this unexpected request; Shen feels a flush of panic creeping over him. He isn't prepared for a full-out fight. "What…wait! I…"

Ignoring his protests, Thundering Rhino charges at him with speed unnatural for a bulking rhino. He throws his palm at Shen's face and the quick blow glances past Shen's cheek as he reacts instinctively to the sudden assault, twisting himself to the right to dodge the attack. Straddling backwards, Shen plunges a wing into his robes, seeking the usual razor-sharp lamina of his steel feathers, and he remembers a second too late. His momentary pause to search gives Thundering Rhino enough time to catch up with him and he knees Shen in his unguarded abdomen, causing him to double over in shock and pain. He follows up with a powerful kick, catching him around the waist and sending him sprawling across the floor, a tangled mess of limbs and feathers.

"Come on, Shen!" Thundering Rhino fumes, towering over him. "Is this all you have to offer?"

Gasping for breath, Shen doesn't reply to the taunt, though his rebuttal burns in his throat. He rolls over and tries to sweep Thundering Rhino's feet with his tail, missing his target as Thundering Rhino skips over the bristling feathers. As Thundering Rhino lands, Shen leaps to his talons and flounces backwards yet again, beating a hasty retreat. Master Thundering Rhino starts towards him immediately on contact with solid earth and closes the distance in a matter of seconds, continuing his unrelenting attack with a heavy, bone-crushing punch. Unable to evade the blow in time, Shen adopts a defensive position and blocks it with both hands instead to deaden the impact. The residual inertia briefly launches him into the air, an opening which Thundering Rhino uses to sneak in a straightforward kick, driving his foot into Shen's stomach yet again.

Shen chokes out a pained groan and keels over, saltwater squeezing out beneath his tortured eyelids. Thirty years of battling with long range weapons has made close combat an alien concept to him; he is clearly outmatched by his former master. The blunt force and bruising are now more than relics from his past as a Kung Fu student. He looks up just in time for Thundering Rhino's fist to cudgel him in the jaw, causing his head to whiplash back and as he hits the hard ground once more he can feel dirt in his mouth mixing with the sharp, metallic aftertaste of freshly spilled blood.

.

"_What's your name, little one?"_

_Shen sniffles and rubs his nose, maintaining his almost vertical stare at the Javan rhinoceros who dwarfs him by several degrees. "Shen," he squeaks nervously. His eyes flicker once towards the stone sledgehammer beside the rhinoceros that makes him minuscule in comparison as well. He can hardly imagine anyone being able to carry around such a massive, cumbersome weapon, let alone wield it effectively in a fight._

_Master Thundering Rhino shakes his head slowly. "Now, that won't do. The sole heir to the noble house of the Peacocks needs to be a little louder than that."_

_Feeling a flare of boldness at the rhinoceros for mentioning his clan, Shen puffs out his chest and elongates his spine, straightening his posture to elevate himself slightly. "My name is Shen," he barks, "and my family doesn't matter! I wanted to learn Kung Fu all on my own, so don't ever mention them again!" He throws the rhinoceros a defiant look, challenging him to argue otherwise. To his surprise, he laughs amusedly and kneels such that they are at eye level._

"_I see. You must be really tired of people looking at you and only seeing the young prince of Gongmen City, aren't you?"_

_Shen opens his mouth, then closes it, unsure of what to say. A simple yes would suffice, but the surprise of having the rhinoceros comprehend what no one has for years wears his monosyllabic answer thin, making it almost inadequate in itself._

"_Well, you don't have to worry about that with me, little Shen. To me, it isn't important where you come from or what family you belong to. I'll sort you out, royalty or not." Returning to his impressive height, he clears his throat and rattles off a string of instructions. "I am Master Thundering Rhino, Shen, and I will be your teacher in Kung Fu. You will refer to me as 'Master' and you will follow my instructions promptly and precisely. I will not tolerate tardiness for my lessons and you will put your fullest effort into learning as much as you can so long as you are under my tutelage. Are we clear, Shen?"_

"_Ye...yes, Master," Shen stutters uncertainly, barely managing to recall the very first line spoken._

"_No good!" Thundering Rhino bellows, his stentorian voice crisp and authoritative. "Are we clear?"_

"_Yes, Master!"_

"_That's more like it." He turns towards the stone platform behind him, which seems to beckon the two of them. Looking back at Shen, he sees the frank curiosity and awe concentrated within Shen's crimson eyes, and he grins. "Let's get started, then – lesson number one."_

.

"On your feet, Shen."

The verbal command manages to penetrate through the dizziness and the wringing pain in his stomach. Drawing long, sucking breaths – almost like inhaling liquid fire – Shen can barely turn his head to look Thundering Rhino in the eye. There is suppressed anger in his former master's face, no doubt, but there's something else – disappointment? vindication? sadness? – which flashes in his eyes and twists the corners of his mouth. He had almost forgotten his master's penchant for mixing emotions, but he can't read through them like he used to decades ago.

"All defence and no offence, Shen? This isn't like you at all," Thundering Rhino rumbles disapprovingly. "Now, I said, on your feet."

Already tired out and his arms heavy with injury, Shen narrows his eyes and replies with pure loathing. "No," he drawls, carefully stretching out the word until it is shaped wide enough to convey his hatred. From the very beginning he had already felt as though he was being manipulated somehow, forced into playing some enormous game, and this merciless spar only helped to confirm that notion. He isn't about to give Master Thundering Rhino the satisfaction of beating him down again, if he did enjoy it the first time round.

Thundering Rhino steps over him and reaches down, seizing Shen by the neck and hoisting him up until they are nearly face to face. "It wasn't a request, Shen," he whispers dangerously. "Thing is, you don't have a choice in the matter."

"So that's what you want, isn't it?" Shen grits out desperately, grasping at straws, all the while trying to ignore the pounding in his head. "Revenge, eh? A fight to the death – one I can't possibly win. You want to…to kill me, don't you? For…for what I did…to you?"

"You still do not understand," Thundering Rhino replies, sounding strangely pained and dismayed at the same time. "Oh, Shen. You've become so strong, and yet you are weak. You amassed armies and created weapons of great power, and here you can't even stand up before me." He relinquishes his grip on Shen, allowing him to collapse onto the floor and massage his throat. "The dead do not desire revenge, Shen. What they do want is inner peace. What _I_ want is for you to remember what I taught you, or else I will have failed as your teacher, and I will never achieve inner peace."

"You…have failed!" Shen screams savagely, ragged breaths punctuating his speech. "I've used what you imparted to me to slaughter whole villages! Families, innocent people; you pachydermic fool – the blood of the pandas is on your hands too, Master!"

Thundering Rhino doesn't appear perturbed by the vicious jibes, even as he looks directly at Shen. Instead, he shakes his head, leans forward and holds up one stern finger. "Tell me this, Shen," he says in a hushed undertone, the timbre of his voice deadened and solemn. "Just tell me: When was the last time you killed someone with your bare hands?"

A reply leaps to Shen's throat and crumbles before he can verbalise it, like fossilised, time-bleached skeletons suddenly exposed to the ardent sun. Plumbing through the recesses of his memory, he realises that he has nothing to say in response and slowly, his dumbfounded silence provides the answer he cannot find.

.

"_Master, can I ask you something?"_

"_Of course, Shen."_

"_Why don't we train with those?" Shen points towards the weapons rack, its polished blades glinting wickedly. "Wouldn't it be easier to win fights with swords instead of relying on fists alone?"_

"_Well, yes. It would be easier to subdue a person if armed with sharp blades, but that isn't the point of your current level of training." He chuckles lightly at the hidden pun and Shen resists grinning at him. "The primary focus of Kung Fu, first and foremost, is to strengthen the body, mind and soul. We build core energy and train ourselves to be aware of everything on the battlefield, to read the ebb and flow of combat like a tide and then responding appropriately. To use a weapon carelessly would be to dilute that concentration, for you become responsible for not just one, but two separate entities of battle. This only serves to restrict your own capabilities and your own aptitude as a Kung Fu master."_

"_But Master," Shen interjects, "you use the Cloud Hammer yourself, and yet you are strong."_

_Master Thundering Rhino smiles at the compliment. "A weapon is only as strong as the warrior who wields it." He kicks at the base of the large hammer, swinging it into both hands, and he whirls it over his head into an attacking stance. "When you gain mastery over your own body and achieve the ability to encapsulate the essence of your own soul into a weapon, your strength doubles in turn." Without the slightest hint of strain or effort, he spins it multiple times – a cinderblock whirligig – and thrusts its striking end forward. Looking back at Shen, he recomposes his resting position before continuing to speak. "It becomes an extension of your very being and likewise, you become part of it, fighting as a single warrior. Even if you don't feel it at first, eventually your mind and body will grow, and when you can feel your will contained within your blade, that's when you'll be able to use it to its fullest potential."_

_Shen listens diligently, inquiring only when Master Thundering Rhino is finished. "So…I will have my own weapon one day, too?"_

_Master Thundering Rhino laughs jovially, a hearty sound Shen likes very much. "We'll see, Shen. For now, let's get back to training, shall we?"_

_Taking that to be an unspoken promise, Shen nods enthusiastically and follows his master back into the training arena._

.

"You haven't forgotten, have you, Shen? Now, get on your feet and fight me."

Still splayed out on the stone floor, Shen dips his head, unwilling to continue holding Thundering Rhino's gaze. "Just…just kill me," he whispers pathetically. He can't bear this anymore. Better to just die now and be spared the humiliating torment.

"No. Stand up and fight."

"I can't!"

"_Won't_," Thundering Rhino corrects, and despite his furious expression, for the first time in Shen's life he appears to be almost on the verge of crying. "You won't face me because it's difficult, but just because it's hard you can't pretend that it doesn't have to be done. That's not the way it works. I'm not going to kill you because if it comes to that it means that I've already given up on you, and I can't. I'll never be able to face myself again if I do." He reaches out a hand, conciliatory and imploring. "You're better than this, Shen. I know."

Shen considers the kind gesture with a mixture of bewilderment and suspicion. Hesitantly, he takes Thundering Rhino's hand and is pulled to his feet.

"Ready yourself, Shen. You will have five seconds." Thundering Rhino takes several steps back and configures his stance, preparing to attack.

He wipes the sweat out of his eyes and spits out whatever blood that remains pooled in his mouth before sinking into a defensive form. This time, he braces for Thundering Rhino's intense assault and he manages to dodge all of his strikes, whizzing deftly past his arms. Twice Thundering Rhino clips him, but is unable to land any direct hits to wound deeply. Shen can't remember feeling this light nor does he recall being able to move so adroitly – his robes no longer weigh him down with the large masses of metal stashed in hidden pockets of fabric. On an unnervingly close-range attack from Thundering Rhino, Shen attempts his first blow; a straight chop aimed at his shoulder. He makes contact with a bodily thud before Thundering Rhino grasps the neck of Shen's robes and flings him to the ground again.

"Good, Shen!" he roars. "Grappling techniques – it was our first lesson, remember?"

Shen peels himself off the floor to avoid being stomped by Thundering Rhino, performing a backwards roll onto his feet and ducking below Thundering Rhino's fist, which comes at him immediately after. He has the advantage of height; Shen drives both fists upwards as hard as he can, punching Thundering Rhino in the pectorals.

Almost as if Shen had struck a pressure point, Thundering Rhino stops moving. "That's what I was waiting for, Shen," he murmurs, his mouth inches away from Shen's ear. Thundering Rhino's body slackens and he falls backwards, sitting on the ground with one knee propped up. "No cannons, no blades, no weapons. Do you see now? You don't need them, Shen." Smiling, he gives that laugh from all those years ago. "You're stronger than that."

There's a grinding noise above them; at the peak of the stairs, the doors to the Tower of Sacred Flame have wedged open. Thundering Rhino thumbs over his shoulder. "Go on, then. This lesson's over; we're all done here."

Between pants, Shen doesn't know what to say to his former master. Staring at him dumbly, Shen holds back the words, unsure of whether he wants to express odd gratitude or lofty sarcasm. Finally, he settles for a polite bow, which Thundering Rhino nods at, acknowledging him.

Walking past Thundering Rhino, Shen thinks – he could very well have imagined it – that he hears the rhinoceros whisper goodbye.

.

_The stories – he still keeps them with him, always. His father would tell him stories of otherworldly beings and mystical creatures: illustrious heroes of ages past, the phoenixes that had ruled primordial China, the legend of the Dragon Warrior. And these tales, fictional or not, had given him hope beyond his own little republic of dreams. He wanted to matter in the world. He wanted to be special. He told his father this, and his father had laughed affectionately._

"_You already are, my Shen," he said, and then he grabbed hold of him and tossed him so high up in the air that the sun kissed him on the forehead and Shen felt as though he could actually fly._

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Well, I just hope it was worth the month-long wait. To make up for that, you may have noticed that this chapter is slightly longer than usual, but it'll probably be another long while before the next update. I hope I never have to write out another fight scene ever again; those things are annoyingly tricky to write. As always, I'd love to hear what you think of it.

Ten points to the person who can spot the Joseph Conrad reference._  
><em>


	4. Night Terrors

_You, if you were sensible,  
>When I tell you the stars flash signals, each one dreadful,<br>You would not turn and answer me  
>"The night is wonderful."<em>

_- Under The Oak_, D.H. Lawrence

.

It takes Shen an entire minute to ascend the entire length of stairs which feed into the Tower of Sacred Flame, but on the final step an epiphany occurs to him so blatantly it practically taunts him. Something about what Thundering Rhino had said to him in the climax of their heated spar bothers him, but he can't set his finger on what it is. _The dead do not desire revenge_, Shen recalls, the details of their exchange now more apparent in his current state of safety. What did he mean by that? Was it simply one of his aphorisms? A clever trick in his train of psychology? Or – with more worrying implications – a concession of his own mortality?

Where does any of that leave him now?

And the other questions which remain answerless – where he is now, why he's here, who his unfathomable guide was. He supposes that the initial shock of having to partake in that brutal fight had obscured the urgency of his need to find answers, but Shen can hardly believe it has taken him this long to restore awareness of his own ignorance; apparently, adrenaline is his opiate, right up there with cannon fire and pyrotechnic chemistry. While he doesn't want to communicate any further with the master he supposedly killed, Thundering Rhino remains the second person he's met and the only one he has now to turn to for resolution, no matter how inconsequential his possible answers may be.

Shen takes a deep breath, steeling himself into a condition as amiable and polite as he can manage, then turns around mechanically. "Thundering Rhino –"

Master Thundering Rhino's gone. An empty courtyard greets Shen's bewildered face, their vacated battlefield quiet and undisturbed as the rest of the city. It's just like with the turtle again, but this time without even a trace. He thinks morosely that he should be used to this by now; even before all this, people had hardly wanted to be in his company unless they had to or were under orders.

He is about to resume his journey into the Tower of Sacred Flame when he notices something glinting out of the corner of his eye, all the way back where Thundering Rhino was sitting. Curious, Shen clambers down the stairwell and goes to investigate the mysterious pinprick of light, which winks at him on every step down.

When he gets closer to the source Shen approaches it with caution. A small, metal key lies trapped between two concrete tiles, reflecting sunlight when he tilts his head at just the right angle. He plucks it from the dirt and palms it, noting how abnormally cold it feels against his skin. A thin layer of rust coats the blade and spreads slightly down to the bow; Shen runs his fingers against the teeth, dislodging accumulated grime caking the blunted edges. On closer inspection, there are several words inscribed on the bow – he's mildly surprised when he sees his own name cast in iron beneath his fingertips.

His instinctive thought is to discard the twisted sheet of corroded metal, but Shen closes his fist around the tiny key and tucks it into his robes, depositing it into a hidden pocket which his knives usually occupy. He reasons that it can't hurt to have something sharp to defend himself with, all the while cognizant of the fact that such a small weapon would be impossible to equip and the lesson that was pounded into him literally minutes earlier.

.

A fan of light has opened itself onto the floor of the foyer; when Shen enters tentatively, a frigid chill hurls itself into his face, drying out his eyes and nostrils almost instantly. The interior of the Tower of Sacred Flame is completely pitch-dark, sans the welcoming light streaming in through the open doors; light quickly becoming a desideratum in this darkened abode. As far as he can see, all the windows are sealed shut and the lanterns mope moodily in their dusty holders, suspended above one another. The icy air sends prickles over his skin and reeks of fustiness, as though no one has lived there for years. He can almost taste the musty wood. The strangest part is the ambient temperature – the only other time he remembers the Tower of Sacred Flame being this cold is in the midst of Gongmen's fiercest winter; a freak blizzard had nearly entombed the city in ice when he was six.

Shen exhales, his breath fogging a misty path for him. Stepping into the centre of the lower room, he hears the doors hissing shut behind him, plunging his surroundings into blackness.

Darkness presses on his eyes as Shen blinks rapidly, trying to acclimatise to the sudden blackout; he could kick himself for not anticipating this and preparing beforehand. Relying on whatever memory he has of his old home, he walks deeper into the room carefully, groping sightlessly to avoid the support columns and other assorted obstacles which could litter his path. He gauges the distance covered by the length and quantity of his footsteps; even after a full minute, visibility remains terrible and Shen can still hardly see past the tip of his beak.

There's something else that feels wrong about this – even more so than usual. For some reason, Shen imagines his own ocellate tail markings on the distant walls which seal him in, every bloodshot eye intently fixed on him; he shivers, this time only partly due to the cold. Still, he aims the trajectory of his route at the corner of the room where he remembers the staircase starts, and his outstretched hand bumps against the polished knob of the guardrail at the same moment when Shen finally becomes convinced that he can feel the heat of exhaled, foreign breath on the back of his neck.

Shen flares out his train and launches a kick at whoever he thinks is behind him. Whatever it is, it appears to leap backwards – he can't say for sure if it even does in the solid darkness. He hears the creature darting towards him again, having been found out by him. Shen feels a shiver of panic in his stomach; yet again, his opponent has an inexplicable advantage and he can't afford another lopsided fight.

The fist only becomes clear inches from his face and Shen ducks, keeping his hand glued to the metallic globe even as prolonged exposure to the biting cold blisters his skin. If he let go to retaliate – a course of action already complicated by his lack of vision – there was the possibility that he wouldn't be able to find it again and he would be lost on the first storey, perhaps for hours. A second invisible fist sinks into his chest as Shen kicks out with both talons. He can barely see the silhouette in front of him twisting to dodge his attack, and his feet catches empty space as he falls onto his back, smacking his head against the steps. His attacker can see him clearly, it would appear; it steps heavily on his thin ankles, grinding them into the floor and Shen shrieks in pain. Struggling beneath the weight of the creature, Shen tries to push it off but it refuses to budge.

In a method most unorthodox to him, Shen pitches his head forward and butts the figure with his skull using all the force he can muster; the tactic catches both of them completely off guard. Shen winces and falls backwards, his face screwing up in pure agony – it feels as though he has fired off one of his own cannons inside his head; surely his brain must be liquefied by now, turned to mush and sloshing around like soup in the cavity of his head. The shock of the blow makes him tear his hand off the freezing metal, but the pain of doing so is masked by all the nerves exploding simultaneously in his forehead. There's a harsh ringing in his ears that refuses to abate; his paper-thin skull has been transformed into a gong, and the impact resonates a screeching note agonisingly around his eye sockets, squeezing out tears. The stranger doesn't evade it despite being able to see and yelps, leaping over Shen and melding into the shadows.

Breathing heavily and rightly terrified by the encounter, Shen remains supine in the stairwell, feeling the angular protrusions of the stairs pressing into his spine and the back of his head. Above him, the footfalls of the fleeing creature fade in the higher floors of the tower. His heart pounds a violent tattoo against his ribs and his eyes are wide open, seeing absolutely nothing at all, as his arms refuse to move, planting themselves tightly by his sides. He waits for the shock in his chest to subside – perhaps leak out of him with every breath – but it remains stubbornly trapped beneath his skin, mixing poisonously with the blood pumping through his veins.

With tiny popping noises, the lanterns overhead begin to fill with small slashes of flame that provide for minimal illumination, as though his defeat had catalysed their lighting somehow. Slowly, Shen begins to see his surroundings in colours, the minute glows of the lanterns soaking the room. Looking down his own body, he sees scratches that he doesn't remember suffering in the fight, but otherwise he isn't seriously injured. Blood – viscous and hot – trickles into his eyes from the gash on his forehead, stinging them, and he makes no effort to wipe it away. All that matters is that death had not come just yet. At the very least, he's managed to stay alive. For now.

Shen coughs weakly, closes his eyes and then he lets himself cry quietly, because he's so very, very afraid and, worse still, alone once more.

.

"_You don't get to tell me that this madness will destroy me," Shen snarls acidly, and then in a voice so wounded and so hushed that Soothsayer doesn't hear: "It already has."_

.

Most of the lower floors are now dimly visible, though staring upwards, Shen notices that the top floors are still shrouded in total blackness. For a few minutes, he waits and listens carefully, trying to detect noises that could give away the presence of anything else. When he can't hear anything besides his own percussive pulse, Shen sits up groggily and holds his head in his hands. The blood has already clotted around the edges of the wound and crusts his eyelids, flaking off onto his ghostly palms. Shen scrubs at his eyes to rid them of the dried coagulate, and possibly the horrible afterimage of the spectre-like creature bearing over him.

The first thing he does, now that he can see, is to try the front doors. Staying where something almost killed him isn't exactly within his idea of self-preservation. He grasps the ice-cold handles firmly, which nip at his palms and fingers, and pulls at them. Unsurprisingly, the doors do not give, as though held shut by some unseen force. It shouldn't be this difficult to open them, if his memory serves him correctly. As Shen places his hands over the thin crack where the two doors meet and runs his fingers down the imperceptible line of demarcation, he discovers that he can't feel anything; not the expected warmth of the heated air of the afternoon seeping in from outside, but a stark nothingness. Not just closed, but hermetically sealed.

A frightening chill comes over him – he's locked in with whatever attacked him on the steps. The thought takes a while to set in; when it does, it starts to fester, and the prospect of yet another ambush in the dark edges itself a distance just above his rapidly beating heart. Shen swallows hard, even though his mouth is bone-dry and there's nothing in his throat that can be swallowed. He tries to rein in the trepidation and only succeeds partially.

Shen becomes aware of several things at once when the initial pain-numbing rush of combat wears off. He's bitterly cold, for one thing; his silken robes provide little protection from the wintry air, which infiltrates his clothing and remains in little caches everywhere, drawing out his body heat right through his pores. Shen's accoutred for leading an army through the balmy heat of Chinese summer, not for traversing this towering icebox. A migraine has settled comfortably between his eyes, and he leans against the unyielding doors, sinking to the ground with a palm pressed against his forehead. Groaning, he stares upwards soberly, trying to see past the darkness that obscures the upper levels of the Tower of Sacred Flame. No such luck. His hand is a blotchy mixture of rust-red and white when it falls to his side, almost like an unspoken admission of defeat.

If only he could find an open window large enough, he could possibly escape by gliding to the ground. He'd done it once before at the very top, but he tries not to think about what could await him there or what his next course of action after that would be. Shen isn't prepared to think that far, not now.

.

The stairs creak dully wherever he sets foot on them – right in the middle or on the sides, there isn't any way to keep them from continuously announcing his presence. _So much for stealth_, Shen thinks, trying out yet another angle to approach the next step with. The wood protests loudly underfoot, enhancing his throbbing headache, and he gives up the attempt to be as quiet as possible.

Shen checks every floor methodologically and thoroughly, making one full circle around the floor, trying to find a way out. All the rooms he has passed so far are locked and the windows prove to be just as difficult to open as the front doors, if not harder. He throws his own weight against one of them, achieving not a portal to the world outside but a bruised shoulder. Now, he climbs to the third floor, massaging his shoulder gently and trying to blink his aggravated migraine away.

As far as he can see, the light extends to the fourth floor and cuts off halfway through the fifth. It will only take him roughly ten more minutes to fully survey the next two floors, after which the darkness will engulf him yet again. He thinks that he hears, while inspecting the second floor, muffled footsteps far above him in the shadows, and Shen licks his lips nervously. No need to lose his level-headedness; it could very well be nothing (besides _it_, but he tries not to think of that). He reasons that if anything else wanted to attack him it would have done so by then, and he holds the thought close to him now, the single most important thing to him now that keeps him sanely trudging up these stairs.

Sane. As if it applies to one who has gone insane many times over; a word tossed around carelessly in the fogginess of his mind, ignoring all that he has already done to render him unworthy of the adjective.

Of the eight rooms on the third floor, Shen tries seven of them with the exact same result – doors sealed tightly to keep people out (_or people in_, he thinks suddenly, and he backs away from the seventh more quickly than with the rest). The eight doesn't respond much differently, but as he's about to turn away, Shen catches a glimpse of the sign on the door.

_Shen._

His name – in full and with proper honorifics – is engraved ornamentally on the sign gracing the front of the door. His room, apparently, but he finds it peculiar. Had he ever lived in a room on the third floor? If he did, he has no indelible memory of doing so; whether time had erased all that he remembered or if it had always been like that, Shen doesn't know, but he thinks that it probably doesn't matter either way.

Shen loops his fingers around the ornately carved door handle and tugs once more; as before, it remains obstinately closed. For a while, he remains in front of it, thinking of ways he could possibly jimmy it open. Blow it open with explosives, if it came to that, and if he could assemble the relevant chemicals; Shen knows where to find the palace's fireworks laboratory, but knowing his luck it would be locked up as well. Not to mention the complication that the room is located way above the fifth floor. He examines the door meticulously with his fingertips, and then his eyes shift to the badly distressed keyhole situated innocently below the handle.

A flash of possibility occurs to him – the key from the courtyard? It's worth trying. Shen searches through his robes for the small piece of wrought metal, realising quickly that he doesn't have it. He turns out all his outer pockets and shakes out his concealed ones, listening for the tinkle when or if the key hits the ground, but it never comes. He must have dropped it somewhere without noticing. Shen looks over the banister to the first floor, wondering if it had fallen out during the scuffle.

Just as he's considering climbing all the way down to look for it, the lanterns lighting the lower floors make up his mind for him. They extinguish slowly, their candle flames shrinking and then dying in the absolute night which sweeps in to fill the floors beneath him. He immediately nixes the thought. There is no going back; not on the shred of possibility that he could actually find the key by searching around blindly in the menacing sea of darkness, if it was even somewhere there. There isn't any guarantee that the key would open the door anyway and there is less of a chance that he would find something essential behind a door he never even knew existed.

Shen's arms ache dreadfully from the cold. Fatigue has started to set in; Shen's vision blurs, only for a moment, but it's enough for him to be worried. He looks down on his hands, which now sport a faint blue tint, the mark of a sinister timer ticking away whatever's left of his existence. He knows that he doesn't have long before the colour spreads. He has to move on now and find either an exit or a source of heat somewhere, or he risks freezing to death.

.

Shen stands at the bottom of the fourth flight of stairs and gazes at the disconcerting half-darkness which glares down on him. He'd leapt gracefully from one end of the fourth floor to the other and managed to snatch one lantern off the cords dangling from the ceiling of the Tower of Sacred Flame mid-flight, making sure that the small fire contained within the paper shell didn't go out. He holds it tenderly in his hands like an offering to placate who-knows-what, readying himself for this, and he begins to climb to the next floor.

The paper-encased flame flickers feebly, bathing Shen's harrowed face in an orange glow. The omnipresent cold stalks him throughout, an invisible tendril of ice coiled tightly around his throat. Walking tiredly past the fifth and the sixth floors, he stops on the seventh for a few minutes' respite, resting the lantern in his lap.

Seated with his back against yet another locked door, Shen toys with the possibility that none of this is real – that this is all a hallucination and happening inside his own head – a thought he had entertained out in the sparring arena when he saw Thundering Rhino for the first time. The Kung Fu Master was right there, raised from his most unceremonious grave, out of ashes and oblivion, and he had battered Shen to the ground before releasing him in a most unexpected gesture of kindness.

Some kindness. Shen scoffs, firmly rooted in the reality of his current plight: He's trapped in his old home with two things that could very well kill him – the gelid air pressing down on him, and whatever attacked him on entry. If Thundering Rhino had known that this would be his fate, Shen regrets not being more firm in begging for his own death when he had the opportunity. Dying in the invigorating excitement of a fight beats out this slow, painful asphyxiation by a long shot. He already knows how this feels, what it feels like to expire by degrees, a vestige from his childhood; claustrophobia of the mind, hypothermia of the body.

His head bobs dangerously, eyelids fluttering. He's so cold and sleepy; Shen snaps upright, willing himself awake and quickening his breathing. If he fell asleep here there was a good chance that he wouldn't wake up and that would be that. He stands carefully, handling the lantern delicately, and then he lopes off towards the next flight of stairs. On each step, he tries to keep himself conscious by thinking of the things which he knows for sure are real.

Saltpetre in charcoal dust clinically shoved down a cannon's barrel. Those are real.

The blazing sun in the aching blue sky slicing through his retinas. So real in his memories.

His own fear, fermenting, bubbling, eating away at him slowly like rot. Too real to be a mere nightmare.

.

The palace is as deathly as a tomb, sombre and phantom-like. He has not called this place home for many decades and it barely even qualifies as a house now, what with its algid qualities and malicious inhabitant stalking visitors from the darkness. Then again, he had destroyed the regal building; he supposes that this is revenge served cold, more than just an idiom now, and he chides himself for even personifying the palace. He doesn't need one more entity against him, fictional or otherwise.

Shen emerges from the stairwell and is greeted by angry, red eyes, two hot coals floating in the darkness. He can feel the bottom of his stomach falling out, giving way as his heart propels itself into his throat. The shapeless mass tries to swipe the lantern from Shen's grasp, but misses as he pulls it out of reach.

Instinctively, Shen turns and flees along the corridor; the creature pursues him doggedly. He doesn't even look over his shoulder at those macabre, glowing eyes as he tries the different doors in rapid succession, pressing lightly against each of them and then hurrying on to the next. The terror is so immense he can feel it bursting through his chest like a raging torrent through a waterlogged dam. He has seconds at most until the figure catches up with him and takes him, perhaps even none at all. He fumbles with the lantern, barely keeping it in his hands, and he pushes against the fourth door on this floor. Miraculously, the door swings open, permitting entry; he'd be more shocked if not for the overriding thankfulness at having managed to find shelter from the beast. Shen scurries inside and throws it shut, feeling a body bludgeon into the hard metal of the door.

Holding it closed with every scrap of strength he has left, Shen braces himself as the creature rams the door, trying to enter forcefully; once, twice, thrice, until it all seems distant and he loses count, praying desperately for it to go away and leave him be. After a long while there's finally nothing that slams against the other side rhythmically and Shen waits an even longer while to make sure. His throat is raw with hysteria and he has a bad desire to cough but he hardly has the breath to do so. He tries to inhale and can only manage sharp gulps of air, feeling his heart hammering away in the cage of his chest. Shen slumps onto the floor, clutching at the lantern with shaking hands like the last hope of salvation.

When he opens his eyes to the room he's in, he scans it for something to barricade the door with. He appears to be in a servant's quarters, by the looks of it – a graveyard of straw mats papers the floor and thin sheets of fabric are strewn everywhere. A tattered duty roster hangs overhead next to the decaying call bell. Spying a heavy-looking cupboard sulking in the corner, Shen places the lantern on a nearby bench and drags the large piece of furniture in front of the door. It wouldn't keep anything that aggressive out permanently, but the move offers some trifling comfort. At the very least, it will slow down whatever's out there if it chooses to return, and maybe give him time to act accordingly.

Shen shambles across the room wearily, dragging his reluctant feet. To his surprise, he finds an oil lamp next to one of the mats, infested with cobwebs and dust, but still fully functional; his first stroke of serendipity ever since he woke up in that deserted alley. He surgically excises the minuscule candle from inside the lantern and transfers the fire to the cotton wick of the lamp, magnifying its luminosity tenfold. Shen cups his hands around the blessed instrument, feeling the gentle warmth on his translucent palms. Looking at how much fuel remains inside the glass container, he approximates that it should last for at least several hours, if his arithmetic is correct, or half a day, if he's fortunate.

Shen plonks himself in the centre of the room, right on top of one threadbare mat, and sets the burning lamp before him. He gathers up whatever pieces of cloth which are large enough and folds them around him like a chrysalis, huddling in front of the fire. The patchwork coat would help to shield him from the cold draft swirling around the room, but it wouldn't protect him from the creature confined in with him, or loneliness, for that matter.

Shen's hungry and tired and cold and afraid. So cold that he's afraid. So hungry that he's tired.

He's tired of being cold and afraid and hungry. Tired of everything.

He misses the power he used to wield over those around him. He misses the days when he could live the hours without being fearful for his life. He misses the sun, with all its organic light unlike the snip of a beacon burning merrily, naïvely, in front of him.

And – he admits it grudgingly – he misses other people.

Shen wonders if it's already night outside. He can't tell – the room has no window, and even if it did, he's sure that it would be sealed as well. He imagines the sky outside purpling with night like he remembers it used to when he was a child. All he knows is that it is night inside here, where nightmares are real and give chase no matter how far or fast he runs. It feels as though the world has ended around him, and he's stuck at the very core. Shen feels so hopeless and desolate; survival past the next day feels like a cruel improbability. Is it tomorrow already? Or is he still stuck in today? Either way, he has no clue what to do, holed up in this room like a hunted animal in its den. What if the creature stalked him until he died, either of cold or starvation? There could be no leaving this room, and it would be his crypt. It's a horrendous truth, but a truth nonetheless.

His head is leaden with lethargy. Shen lies down and curls into the smallest position he can muster, trying to shrink into himself, disappear completely from this world, and he waits. He waits, the vapour of his breath white in the glow of combusting oil, his eyes unfocused and hazy. He can't fall asleep just yet; he has to stay vigilant. The threat of attack still remains…

Sleep is upon him quickly, and this is both a blessing and a malediction.

.

_His life would be their parting gift to him._

_They both stand there, the wind billowing out their robes, almost like clouds in miniature. His mother has her face in her hands, sobbing, but Shen looks at her pleadingly, begging with his eyes. His father, maddeningly larger than he is, waves a dismissive wing in his direction with as much dignity as possible. "Go away," he chokes shrilly, pain striping his voice, a brief moment of struggle in his eyes. Shen opens his mouth to argue his demented case, and is stopped by a heavy paw resting on his shoulder. Boss Wolf locks eyes with him, shaking his shaggy head hopelessly. Shen cries in anger and frustration, and then he turns to leave, sealing his emancipation._

_A parting gift indeed, for now there's a part of him that cannot be put back again, forever broken, left behind; in the end, what tears, what words can never set right, can never mend._

.

When he wakes stiffly in the arbitrary dawn Shen doesn't open his eyes, confident that it would just be artificial, suppressed light that meets him once again. He stretches out a wing until it makes contact with the metal base of the lamp, and by then he becomes aware of something breathing on his face. His eyes spring open abruptly to a pair of cavernous, flaring nostrils, wet and cold against his forehead. He's almost cross-eyed by their proximity, and it takes nearly a second for him to react.

Shen yells bloody murder, swinging his free hand up in a fist and socking whoever the nose belongs to in the head. The large nose lets out a bark and topples over him. Shen scrambles to avoid being crushed by the falling body and clambers to his feet, holding the oil lamp out to get a clearer view of the intruder.

Boss Wolf sits on the floor, his hands fastened over the watering eye Shen hit. He scowls at Shen, whose mouth is agape in astonishment, having just seen his right hand man as alive as Thundering Rhino.

"You?" Shen hasn't spoken for so long that hearing the hoarse quality of his own voice is frightening.

"Check to see if you're okay and what do I get…" the wolf grumbles, glaring at Shen with his uninjured eye.

"How're you still alive?"

"I'm chipper, thanks for asking." He shakes his head irritably. Since when had he become so good at sarcasm?

"You…how did you get in here?"

"Wasn't easy," he grunts. "You found one heavy cupboard." Shen looks at the door, which has been wedged open just enough to let Boss Wolf squeeze through. With difficulty, he thumbs his eye open, and it reflects a red hue from the candle flame; Shen realises that it's the exact same shade as his attacker's.

"It was you!" Shen's suddenly irate, accusing, all suffering forgotten.

His eyelid still twitching, Boss Wolf doesn't look at him. "Yeah," he says simply. "What of it?"

"You attacked me! Twice!"

With the spasms lessening, he can now train both eyes on Shen. "You threw a dagger in my neck," he counters matter-of-factly, shrugging.

"You filthy little mongrel! How dare you –"

"What part of 'you threw a dagger in my neck' did you not understand?" Boss Wolf sighs exasperatedly, raking his fingers through the dishevelled fur on his head. "Dagger. My neck. For heaven's sake, Sir! Surely that's worth a few hours of simple fright."

Shen's tirade cuts short at Boss Wolf's surprising impudence; he feels a twinge of familiarity, being addressed formally once more, and he softens slightly. "I…what are you doing here, then?"

Boss Wolf unslings a satchel from around his shoulders and opens it. He holds it out to Shen with both hands, presenting a rock slide of steamed buns. "I thought that you might need some food, so I got you these." He takes a look into the bag himself. "Probably brought more than you can eat, but we'll share, I suppose. I'm rather hungry myself."

Shen's battered stomach quickly vetoes his immediate suspicion and hesitance; he takes one unquestioningly and jams it in his mouth. Boss Wolf clamps a bun in his teeth and rummages around in the bag, retrieving a wooden flask from somewhere inside it. He uncaps the flask and offers it to Shen. "Thirsty?" he asks, speaking the best he can around the edges of the pastry. Nodding, Shen accepts the container and drinks deeply from it. Apple-infused tea, sweet and hot, fills his mouth and washes down the chewed bun still lodged in his throat.

They settle on the floor, facing each other in silence. Every now and then Shen takes another bun and pops it apart with his fingers, placing bits in his mouth one at a time, his eyes flickering to and from the wolf seated in front of him. It's hardly epicurean, but he tries his best. Boss Wolf watches him diligently, with what seems like a question held in his eyes.

"Thank you," Shen finally concedes between bites. He hasn't placed the nerve-racking experiences from the previous day behind him, but even for all his haughtiness Shen knows that he owes Boss Wolf this much.

Boss Wolf nods at him. "No problem. After all that last night, goodness knows that you needed it." He looks up. "Sir," he adds, for effect.

A military title which Shen had always cherished with pride, but hearing it now tightens his chest. He drops his gaze to the remains of his sixth bun in his hands. "You…you don't have to keep calling me that," he murmurs, strangely humbled after all he has gone through.

Boss Wolf's eyes open wide in amazement. "Well, then what do you want me to address you by, Lord Shen?"

His own name catches on the tip of his tongue. He isn't ready for this level of triviality, at least not yet. "That will do fine for now, I guess," he replies meekly.

Boss Wolf grins. "Yes, Lord Shen." He takes a large bite out of another bun and pours a substantial amount of tea into the flask cap. He pushes the flask back towards Shen and takes a sip from his improvised cup.

"Where did you get all of this?"

"Pantry." Boss Wolf jabs a finger upwards. "It's all there was left, so I took everything and brought it down here."

Shen isn't satisfied with the shallow answer. Acutely, he's aware of the freshness of the steamed buns – someone had to have prepared them only minutes before. "And who made all of this?" he asks testily.

Boss Wolf's face scrunches in concentration. "Some tortoise. Really old. Kind of wrinkly." He scratches his head and looks back at Shen. "Smelt like tea."

Shen lights up with excitement he never knew he had. "Is he still up there?"

"Don't know. Probably not," Boss Wolf says. "Told me to bring this down to you and said something about needing to go elsewhere." He points at the deflated bag.

"Oh. I see." Shen fidgets uncomfortably, but at least he finally has someone giving him answers. He'd almost forgotten how it feels. "Well then, what's happening? Why are we here? Why are you here?" The implicit rudeness in his last question isn't lost on Shen; he suddenly feels the need to re-establish his hierarchy somewhat, even in this moment of tenderness.

Boss Wolf whistles and leans back. "Frankly, I can't answer most of that. I suppose I could tell you what's happened to me, but it's a long story…"

"I…I know," Shen says. To hell with the hierarchy. "I'll listen. I've got all the time in the world."

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** Interesting fact – the first warded lock was thought to have been manufactured in ancient China. Who knew. And it seems that I've taken to naming my chapters after Doctor Who episodes.

So much for '3 chapters long - 4 if I can manage - before I run out of ideas'. Better to outdo youself, I always say. If anyone's wondering (I'm presuming no one is) why the genre of this fic has been changed from 'Angst' to 'Angst/Suspense', I think the reason is quite clear in this chapter. Well, this is me with both feet in my mouth: An update to this story in just a week. It's an epic length double chapter too! Think of it as my last hurrah before going on hiatus again; this time it really will be around the end of this year when the next chapter goes up. Hope this can make up for that and help tide you over until then.

I really had to write on eggshells with this one. My single largest worry is that Shen's a little OOC at the end, but come on. After what the poor guy's been through? Even evil overlords need to be cut some slack sometimes.


	5. Wolves Don't Howl Alone

_Ye cannot unlock your heart,_  
><em>The key is gone with them;<em>  
><em>The silent organ loudest chants<em>  
><em>The master's requiem.<em>

_- Dirge,_ Ralph Waldo Emerson

.

"Where do you want me to start?" Boss Wolf asks, turning over a bun in his paw like a betting chip. He speaks with the collected air of a gambler, of someone who doesn't want to reveal too much, lest it betrays the cards he holds in his hands and those that he doesn't.

"The very beginning. After I…"

"Ah, yes." Boss Wolf's voice turns husky and attritive, and the corner of his mouth twitches. Searching for the words to use, he embroils himself in a silent struggle not to burst out into the accusations simmering in his mind, even though he would be justified in doing so anyways. The fires of that cinnabar night seem to erupt in his eyes as he speaks, a prophet recanting his parable.

"After you struck me down, it wasn't immediate," Boss Wolf says, looking downwards with distant eyes, as though he is recalling something far-off and older than themselves. "It felt numb at first – the bite of metal piercing my flesh – and then the pain started all over. I hit the deck and I tried to get up but failed, bleeding out through my neck and just gaping at the shock of it all, at what you'd done. Then I tried to apply pressure to halt the bleeding, but I was already choking on my blood, suffocating behind you." His gaze lifts to Shen. "I saw you fire the cannon. You killed members of my pack to get to the panda and his gang. My brothers turned to ash before me as I lay dying."

Shen stares at Boss Wolf, willing himself not to look away because that would mean submission. "They took an oath to serve me till death, and that they did," he whispers carelessly. Did he look towards them, though, as they writhed and fell before him? He was caught up in vengeance and hysteria and rage and he was all of those things at once – death seemed so trifling at the time, a watermark stain in his ledger book of necessary sacrifices. There had been so many; what were a few more discarded lackeys?

The wolf's eyes narrows and the beginnings of a snarl brush his lips. He settles for a thin smile, horrible and ugly in all that it doesn't say, all that he won't say. "That we did. That we did.

"Didn't take long after you blasted your way through the harbour like a madman. I couldn't breathe through the smoke all around me and my own thick blood filled my mouth and throat and lungs, and it burned and burned and burned like boiling water inside my chest. The fear and panic made it so much worse because I remember fighting against it and I couldn't stop the mist from coming and swallowing me up; my arms were heavier than metal and I wanted to scream but I didn't have the air for that, and I was sinking deep into nothing, drowning on dry land.

"It was pure torture, all the while."

A tremble prickles over Shen's skin. He had gone for an instant kill shot with his knives when that had happened, but the lighting had been poor and he wasn't thinking straight then to maximise precision and accuracy. Faced with Boss Wolf's refusal to deploy the cannon, Shen had reflexively yanked a blade from his robes and threw it without a second thought in the heat of combat and betrayal. All he wanted to do was to kill the panda, and Boss Wolf was standing in his way. Isn't that what you do with obstructions? You remove them, and yet with that logical progression whirring in his mind he cannot stop his hands from shaking in his lap. He stones his expression to keep the guilt out, and to keep the tears in.

"And…and then what happened?"

"I woke up," he says simply. "Right here in the Tower of Sacred Flame, in the dank and the dark and cold, completely fine and my neck all right. My eye could open again. I could see out of my injured eye." Boss Wolf touches the left side of his face and Shen notices the unbruised organ, glassy, healthy and fully functional as it was before the panda pogrom. "For some reason, I wasn't already dead. The place was so quiet and empty; it felt like something terrible had happened. There didn't seem to be anyone else around so I explored a little bit.

"The darkness wasn't that much of a problem. Night vision and all that, you know, plus I had both eyes to use. Navigating around was also pretty easy; must have been only hours since we left the place and I still knew the layout well. But there was no way out because all the entrances were locked up tighter than a drum, and I must have spent a few hours moving up and down the entire tower looking for an exit. Should have given up by the second time I did it, but making sure never hurts."

He pauses to take a breath, and resignation crosses his face. Pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, Boss Wolf looks ready to cry. "I thought I was going to die in here," he says, covering his face with his paws. Strangely, Shen finds himself empathising with his former right paw man, having endured the exact same prospect just a few hours previously. The snappy request for the wolf to continue catches in Shen's throat, and he waits for Boss Wolf to collect himself sufficiently to resume his tale.

Wiping his eyes and sniffling, Boss Wolf lets out a crow of mirthless laughter. "To die slowly and painfully not just once, but twice in the same day – I guess that's karma for you.

"There was little I could do besides waiting for something, anything, to happen. On the ground floor, there's a little alcove that I slept in for a couple of hours, even though I was anything but tired and sleeping was a frightful option. I thought that maybe when I woke up I'd be back on your boat with a knife in my neck and bleeding to death once again. Either way, I would end up dead anyway, so eventually I slept.

"Then something woke me," he says. "I smelt copper and injury and it was new blood scenting the air outside, infiltrating into the tower where I was." _My blood_, Shen thinks, remembering the savage skirmish with Thundering Rhino out in the courtyard. "There wasn't much of it for me to be sure, but enough for me to notice in here. Just as I was about to run over to the doors to double check, they opened, and oh, the light!" Boss Wolf closes his eyes, letting the exuberance of that moment overcome him like it did before. He gives a dreamy smile, lost in boundless, untainted ecstasy. "The light," he repeats. "I'd nearly forgotten what daylight looked like, and there it was before me.

"Instinct told me to run as quickly as I could, and I did. I couldn't have reached the doors faster. Looking out into the open, I saw you walking up the stairs, and I retreated back into the tower."

A strange feeling starts to claw its way up Shen's body, and he feels slightly ill. He thinks it might be anger, or perhaps dread, both of which are distinct possibilities now that Boss Wolf is approaching the details of his inhospitable confrontation. Knowing how part of the tale ends calms him enough not to strike out at the wolf.

"At first, I was happy that I wasn't alone. That there was someone else besides me around and maybe we could work out a solution to this whole thing together.

"But I thought for a while about what you had done, and I was so angry. I was furious. I hated you for turning on me when all I did was protect the ones I loved, when all I did was try to save blood members of my own family. My kin died in your name, died in vain, and you walked over their bodies as though their lives meant nothing. I wanted to make you pay but I didn't know how and you entered the tower so quickly there wasn't room to think.

"The doors closed, and I saw you falter, blindsided and addled by the sudden dark. I followed you for a while, trying to improvise a plan. Not exactly my strongest suit, though, and I didn't notice that I was standing too close to you as we reached the base of the stairs."

Both of them still, fully aware of what comes next in full detail but Boss Wolf must be the one to say it because he's telling this story and Shen is the listener.

"You attacked, tried to land a kick. It was clumsy and so easy to dodge, and I knew then that I outmatched you even though you're a better fighter than me because you couldn't see and I could. Even the best warriors need to have whatever they want to hit in their sight."

His voice is barely a whisper at this point, almost confidential. "I beat you to the ground and stomped on your legs, waiting for the crack of bone under my paws so I knew that I had hurt you. I thought that I had you, and there was no way you could fight back. Guess I was wrong."

"As if I'd just lie there and take it. Killed by someone too cowardly to fight fair? Not I! You sorely underestimated me, wolf," Shen mutters acidly.

Boss Wolf blinks hard in surprise, looking inquisitive. He taps his chin mockingly. "You seriously believe you have the moral authority to lecture me on fighting fair, _sir_? I'd consider paying heed to you only after you'd gotten rid of all your cannons and boats, and that's not even a promise."

Shen springs to his feet at this perceived effrontery, his eyes flashing a warning. "_You dare_ –"

Boss Wolf copies him perfectly, down to the threatening glare. "Yes, I do dare, Lord Shen, because I'm not the wolf you knew. Not anymore. And unless you aren't interested in hearing what happened to me, you'll let me talk!"

Shen scowls, but closes his beak and folds his arms before plonking back on the floor and turning away mutinously. "Carry on, then," he concedes.

Boss Wolf huffs in frustration and sinks back into a seated position before picking up where he left off. "Your attack was…unexpected, to say the least. Unexpected, but effective. It felt like my head was going to fall off my shoulders and the entire room heaved beneath my feet as though I was really, really seasick. I couldn't see or fight properly in that state, and I was afraid that you'd be armed, so I fled upstairs to recover. Probably a lapse in judgement, though – you'd have used your weapons sooner if you had any. You don't, do you?"

Shen rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "Trust me when I say that if I did, I'd have killed you easily. Again."

"Of course you would have," Boss Wolf replies slyly, his words dripping sarcasm. He continues quickly when he sees Shen attempting to rebut. "Once I hit the ninth floor, I had some time to think about what I'd do once you caught up to me. Fighting where we could see each other would certainly mean my defeat, so I had to stay within the shadows. On the other hand, I saw that the lights had come on around the lower floors and I didn't know if the rest of the lanterns would do the same all the way to the top of the tower. If that happened, a head-on attack would be suicide.

"They didn't, and I was thankful for that. I heard you approaching below me, and I got ready to strike.

"You surprised me again with that lantern – I thought that you were just aimlessly blundering around in the dark without anything to light your way. I panicked for a second because I wasn't sure if you could see enough to defend yourself and just went for it immediately. Then the chase began, and you somehow locked yourself in here." He glances back at the cupboard, rubbing his right arm where he'd tackled the door with.

"I didn't pull it over in time, if that's what you're thinking," Shen says calmly. "No, I had to hold the blasted thing shut and you weren't planning on making it easy, were you, wolf?"

Boss Wolf looks impressed and watches with genuine awe as Shen snags the last bun. "Humph. Didn't think you had that in you, Lord Shen. Always thought that…never mind."

"Yes. Well. Go on; what did you do afterwards? What of the turtle?" He bites off bits of the pastry and laves more tea into his mouth, feeling oddly proud.

"Turtle? Oh, right. Sorry. Forgot for a moment.

"He came to me out of nowhere. Walked up the stairs with a lamp and a staff as if he did it everyday, hauling this huge haversack and asked me to follow him. I just stared at him wondering if I should attack or not, but he just threw the haversack at me and started walking to the ninth floor. Didn't know what I was supposed to think at the time, so I grabbed it and went after him.

"When we reached the kitchen he started taking everything out of the haversack – pots, flour, flint stones, everything a cook would need. He handed me an apron." Boss Wolf smiles, half-abashed, half-amused, at the sight of Shen's eyebrows swooping together in incredulity. "We started making buns; he showed me how and even said it was a pity that he didn't bring anything to stuff them with since plain buns could be pretty unappetising.

"He spoke to me about you while we waited for the buns to finish steaming. That I shouldn't blame you or cling to old vengeances that I wouldn't be able to carry out in life or in death. I told him no."

The granular remains of the last bun fall to the floor like sand sifting through fingers. Shen tests the words on his tongue carefully. "Spoken like a true avenger," he murmurs, clenching his jaw. "Guess I did teach you something useful after all." He shoots Boss Wolf an aloof sideways glance, thinking it will diminish him somehow.

To his surprise, Boss Wolf is entirely unperturbed by this, opting to shake his head uselessly. "You're not listening to me. I _told_ him no. But then we talked some more, and he asked me if I still remembered what you were like before all of this. This madness. And I…I remembered so much of I'd forgotten a long time ago, what I'd lost to this tiresome, endless war. You and me. We used to play ultimate tag together in these hallways," Boss Wolf says, his voice flattening, splintering with every passing syllable.

Disconcertment grips Shen quickly, and he stands up once more even though his shaking knees threaten to buckle under his weight. "Why are you telling me this?" he asks quietly, their ancient, blithesome laughter echoing in his ears along with the dull pounding of his heart.

"All those years we had together – there was nothing I wouldn't do with you, Lord Shen. Oh, I swear you were the absolute best of me." Boss Wolf looks up with eyes that glisten with tears and memory. "We'd chase time itself to the four corners of the world to touch the stars if we could, and we even made a map, remember? To run away and never look back at what we'd leave behind. Every night since that day happened when I gained a king and lost my friend, I always looked at you and thought of that map. Of what we used to be, and what could have been in place of our pointless exile. And I wondered if you ever did the same."

"No! Never!" Shen cries urgently. "What is this? Some…some awful mind trick I'm supposed to listen to? A psych analysis? Don't think you can just get inside my head like that and do whatever it is you're planning on doing!" He snatches up the oil lamp and runs for the door, desperation commandeering his limbs, taking him as far away from Boss Wolf as possible, to a place without him so that he can pretend what was said didn't manage to touch him to his very heart and soul.

.

Up in the kitchen, Shen hides behind one of the counters, feeling his eyes burn. Stale dough has crusted over the tabletops and he can still hear the slow bubble of water in a pot on the charcoal stove behind him. There's a stirring movement on his left and the same nose from before slides over his shoulder. Rotating his head slowly, he sees Boss Wolf propping himself beside Shen, his face drawn into a tired, pleading expression.

He whispers, "Back there, I meant everything I said; I really did. I don't know if you still think of me as a friend, but I think of you as mine. I made a pact at seven that we'd be friends until the day we died, and I intend to honour that pact. Friends forgive each other, and you're always and forever forgiven. Truly, completely forgiven."

Boss Wolf offers Shen his paw, upon which sits a tiny, rusted piece of metal twisted into a key.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Title is from a chapter of the Japanese manga, Bleach.


End file.
